The birds squint against the cloud-glare sun

From their perches high above

Parched grass, trampled by unforgiving feet.

They sense a falling-out-of-love

From this world, a sin against their home, a crime claimed by none.

Those grown enough to see the plants lose their charm—

They’ve turned to grey relics of their youth—

Are too lost in their shining tortured sculptures and plastic toys.

The men would rather invent a new truth

Than admit to the treefall, an ax swung by their arm.

The green is leached from this world and replaced by silver waste,

A welcome distraction from the devolution wrought.

Robin song no longer holds its merry tune, and flat notes fall on deaf ears—

There’s no need to afford a beast a passing thought.

And there’s no time, for the men are lost to their fevered development’s haste.

The sparrows, chickadees, raptors, and wrens

Abscond, seek sanctity from an untimely demise.

It’s in vain.

They search southern plains, clearer skies,

But ultimately safety frays, torn in tattered ends.